


chasing harry

by fallfreely



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bodyguard AU, M/M, Royalty AU, not really complete sorry, prompt fill fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfreely/pseuds/fallfreely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>chasing liberty au, prompt fill from the great lirry ficathon</p>
            </blockquote>





	chasing harry

  
"Join MI5, they said," Liam mutters to himself, stomping down the smoke-filled hallway of the night’s seedy club number three. "Do your duty for King and country, they said."  
  
The bathroom stalls don't yield any results, for which Liam is secretly grateful, because he's still traumatized from the last time he had to yank Harry off his knees from the floor of one, and really, they don't pay him enough for this shit.  
  
Threatening the club owner with life imprisonment in the Tower gains Liam access to the VIP lounge, and it's there he finally finds his charge—sprawled on a leather couch that's actually bigger than Liam's bed back home, surrounded by the usual crew of royal hangers-on. If Liam's not allowed to plant tracking devices in Harry's clothes, they should at least let him do it to Harry's friends.  
  
"Liam," Harry crows, standing to greet Liam and shedding two different girls off his knees as he does. He drops a lanky arm around Liam's shoulder, eyelashes lazy against his cheeks and the smell of expensive brandy on his breath. "Timely as usual, mate, I was just starting to get bored."  
  
Liam doesn't point out that Harry’s been a state of perpetual boredom since birth, seems like—he just performs a well-practiced dance that involves shucking Harry's arm and prying the glass out of his hand at the same time. "Time for bed, Haz, yeah? Tell your friends goodnight," Liam says, patiently.  
  
The nickname isn’t very professional of him, he knows, but calling Harry, 'your Highness,' or ‘sir’ had lasted for all of a week after Liam had first landed this assignment. But Harry being able to charm Liam out of his fresh-from-academy woodenness within days is the least of Liam's problems.  
  
Harry makes as if to pout, but then his eyes flash too-green and considering under the low light, and he only glances away from Liam long enough to wave over his shoulder, saying, "Last shout's on me, loves," with a grin. Then he’s sidling back into Liam's personal space, and he murmurs, "And whose bed did you mean, Li?" in that honey-gravel voice of his, which also happens to be among the more urgent of Liam's problems.  
  
It's then Liam realizes he's made the mistake of assuming Harry was drunker than he actually is. Getting a pissed, stumbling Harry home is an irritating, thankless task, but one that Liam's familiar with. Harry like this—too near, too warm, sleepy-eyed and a deliberate hand pressed low on Liam's back—that Harry is one that Liam's had to fend off only a handful of times before, and, frankly, is the version of Harry that terrifies Liam the most. Even more so than the Harry who treats personal security as a suggestion more than a rule, six days of seven.  
  
“Your own,” Liam says, letting Harry navigate them both out of the room and out of the club, because letting Harry do the things he thinks are his ideas is always the easier option. Up to a point, of course. Liam is unable to resist adding: “You know, Harry, your own bed? That thing you haven’t slept on in a week?” because, yeah—they definitely don’t pay Liam enough for this shit.  
  
“I was bunking over at Ed’s, wasn’t I?” Harry waves the hand that’s not tucked around Liam’s waist, dismissive. “I texted you that.”  
  
“That was Thursday, Harry. Which means it’s been two days since you last checked in,” Liam says, knowing his voice is doing very little to disguise the strain and exhaustion of chasing down wayward Princes. He’s trained to box, to run marathons, to withstand interrogations, to shoot to kill at twenty yards out—but nothing in Liam’s life to date has quite prepared him for Harry Edward Styles III, nineteen-year old heir to the Commonwealth.  
  
They reach the back door to the club, and Liam has to put a hand flat on Harry’s chest to keep him from sweeping through the door first, because he’s an idiot who can’t learn the simplest things, like the fact that his life is worth more than Liam’s own, and also that Liam is employed by the Crown, so flirting with him as a member of the royal family is probably an ethically grey area.  
  
“You’re so hot when you have a whinge, Li,” Harry says, with a low laugh that vibrates all the way to Liam’s elbow, making him snatch his hand back.  
  
He glares, then tries to concentrate on checking in with the SIS stationed outside, wanting to make sure the alley’s clear. _His royaal pain in the arse is secure_ , he types into his mobile, too quickly. _bring the car round back 2 meet us._  
  
“It’s called a dressing-down, get it right,” he argues, only half-paying attention. He realizes his mistake when Harry crowds him up against the door, all long limbs and wicked smile with those damn curls flopping careless over one eye.  
  
“Is that an offer?” Harry teases, still laughing at him, and suddenly it’s too much—Liam’s not made of stone, not nearly—nor is he a saint, he can’t be expected to stop his heart from running off with itself, from letting out a low quick breath at the feeling of Harry’s hips pinning his own to the wall. Liam bites his lip to keep from swearing, and that’s about as much as he can do—but it only makes Harry’s eyes drop to his mouth, and then Harry isn’t laughing anymore, he’s caught his breath and they’re close enough for Liam to actually see the hitch-stop of Harry’s chest when he does.  
  
Liam doesn’t know exactly how long they stand like that, both frozen between movements, the potential for disastrous decisions buzzing in the air between them—but he’s saved by his phone letting out a chirp from where it’s clutched in his sweating hand, and he breaks Harry’s gaze to look down at the screen.  
  
“Car’s here,” Liam says, no inflection. He opens the door, escaping into the damp night air and the darkness of the alley, praying it can hide his blush.  
  
If it weren’t for the fact that Harry had shucked every bodyguard that the SIS had brought in before Liam within two months, if it weren’t for the fact that Liam doesn’t trust anyone else anymore to look after him properly, if it weren’t for those stupid, sodding dimples—oh, if only. He can run these same circles in his mind for hours, and has before, but tonight he doesn’t want to, he’s tired, and now Harry’s looking at him like Liam’s just said tacos have been outlawed by the Monarchy.  
  
Liam opens the door to the agency car that’s pulled up, waiting for Harry to get in.  After a moment Harry sighs, and does so, but stops Liam from shutting the door by looking up at him, expression as serious and sober as Liam’s ever seen it.  
  
“Can’t run from me forever,” Harry says, softly, like he doesn’t spend half his life making Liam’s life miserable by doing just the same.  
  
Liam opens his mouth to say how unfair that is, how inappropriate, how this needs to stop— what comes out instead is a low and wearied, “I know.”


End file.
